Nine Days Later
by alittlebreathlessness
Summary: A week and a half after Dr. Turner and his son find Shelagh in the mist they spend a quiet evening together in his home while Patrick ponders their future.
1. Chapter 1

Patrick found himself glancing over the top of his newspaper far more often than usual. Whatever he was reading escaped his mind almost entirely, and every time he tried to finish an article his eyes would be at the bottom of a paragraph without having absorbed any of its content.

The laughter was what surprised him the most. He wasn't prepared for how happy Timothy would be in Shelagh's presence, or how his son lit up when she lavished him with attention. Timothy was an intelligent child, much loved by his father, but frequently left to entertain himself when Patrick knew he should be spending more time with him. Shelagh's presence created an astounding change in the boy, urging smile after smile that left his cheeks rosy, his hands animated, and his posture comfortable.

"Oh-ho! You got me there, Timothy, good job!" Shelagh grinned and clasped her hands together as he reached over the chess board and stole her last remaining knight. Her eyes flickered to Patrick and she caught him gazing at her yet again. She did what she always did when it happened: pursed her smile together in the middle of her lips and looked down momentarily before looking at him again and holding his gaze. Patrick felt as he always did when she did this: as though an invisible ribbon had woven itself through all of his ribs and pulled him toward her. He let half of his mouth tip upwards in a smile.

Shelagh turned back to Timothy. "You're very good at chess, Timothy. I'm not sure I'm a worthy opponent."

"You've only just started, though, so it would be really embarrassing if I couldn't beat you," Tim pointed out in a obvious tone of voice. "Dad, do we have to listen to Beethoven anymore? I know you're trying to impress Auntie Shelagh but my eardrums are beginning to hurt."

Patrick grunted and loudly turned the page of his newspaper without looking up. "What would you prefer we try next, Timothy, Bach or Tchaikovsky? " He raised his eyebrows and felt like the terrible fraud that was soon made apparent by the son who always gave him away.

"Ugh, neither!" The boy turned to Shelagh, "He's trying to make you think we're really posh by playing some of Mum's old records, but he actually plays the old bands when he thinks I'm asleep. I don't like it but he dances around to Glenn Miller when I'm not in the room."

"Timothy!" Patrick's embarrassment colored his ears and then immediately subsided as he watched Shelagh's eyes widen and her mouth form a tiny circle.

"Oh, do you have Glenn Miller, Patrick?"

There was that familiar pang in his gut, the one he could not control whenever she surprised him. The newspaper was in his lap now and he sat on the edge of the chair and nodded.

Her face was lit as if she were a child on Christmas morning. "Oh, Patrick, could we - could we listen to it? If it's all right with Timothy, that is." The boy shrugged as if anything from this century would satisfy him. She looked at Patrick again in anticipation, one hand holding the other, and he tried not to move too eagerly as he rounded his chair to look through the albums behind him. His finger went right to the one he was after, and without thinking to slow down he slid the vinyl from the cardboard and replaced Beethoven's 5th with a well-worn record that brought him immediately back to his far more youthful days almost fifteen years ago. When he spun around the smile on his face was contained but his feet begged to dance.

He'd never been much of a dancer, but almost since the moment she'd gotten into the Austin on that day in the mist he had painted a picture in his mind of the two of them dancing together in this very room. He wondered what her back felt like and whether she would remember how to dance at all. He doubted she could be bad at it, knowing how wonderfully she conquered every task she undertook. A lump appeared in his throat as he imagined teaching her to dance again and twirling around and watching her smile with her chin tilted up toward him. He swallowed hard. They'd only known each other in this way, as an ordinary man and an ordinary woman, less than two weeks. To anyone else it might seem forward for him to request an arm at a former nun's waist, yet he so fiercely longed to ask her that his fingers twitched at his side. He was saved from any decision by a groaning yawn that escaped Timothy's mouth.

Patrick raised his eyebrows and lowered his chin as the first notes of trumpets began their sweet song on the table behind him. "I think it's time for you to go up to your bath, Tim. It's been a long day."

"Oh, but Dad!"

"Come on, up you go," he gently nodded his head toward the door, with a small voice in his mind reminding him that he would have been much firmer with his son had Shelagh not been present.

"But we haven't even finished our game! I was about to make a really big move!"

Shelagh smiled at Patrick conspiratorially, then touched Timothy's shoulder across the table. "We can finish it tomorrow, dearest. I'm sure you'll think of an even bigger play if you sleep on it. Take your bath now and come down for good-nights, hmm?"

Patrick watched with amazement as his precocious son did not offer any argument, instead nodding at Shelagh and slowly moving toward the doorway. Violins began to build in the song, drowning out the sounds of his heavy footsteps as he climbed the stairs.

They were both staring at the doorway for long moments after he had left the room. Patrick was glad for the music, which covered the sound of a heartbeat he thought could be heard on the street. It was always like this when they were alone. The stillness that was left in Timothy's absence was familiar and sweet, now accompanied by Serenade in Blue.

When Shelagh turned away he watched her go to the table and lift the chess board, careful not to move any pieces, and place it on the sill of the kitchen hatch. Then she brushed the tablecloth with one hand and caught any rogue crumbs in her other, heading toward the kitchen bin as though she belonged in the place as much as the doorway or the floor. He watched her make her way around the kitchen and pick up a plate that held remnants of biscuits he and Tim had devoured, but when she started toward the sink he stepped to the hatch.

"I can do that," he said, with a light gesture toward his chest. "Leave it until tomorrow."

She shook her head with a cute smile. "No, Patrick, if we leave it there'll just be more mess in the morning. I'll not have your housekeeper put out."

"Leave it, Shelagh. Please. Come and sit with me. I feel I haven't seen you in an eternity."

Shelagh needed no more coaxing once their gazes collided over the half-wall that separated them. Plate set aside, she crossed slowly to the living room where he stood, her heels slowly clicking on the floor in time to the music. She was grimacing slightly, he noticed, and he was about to say something about it when she looked up at him from only an arm's length away. Her piercing eyes stirred something in him and he wondered if their children would have her eyes or his.

"I loved Glenn Miller when I was a girl."

Patrick walked to the sofa without taking his eyes from her, and she followed and sat close enough for him to touch, but he contained himself. He tipped his head toward her. "I listened during the war. Everyone did. If we could find a radio on the front, we listened." Once again, without invitation, the reminder was hanging before him that he had been a grown man when she was just a child. As the awareness of their age difference made him momentarily uncomfortable, Patrick cleared his throat and scratched his nose. Those questions formed before he could stop him: Why would she ever choose to be with him? How could he make her happy? He would have to brush the thoughts away until later, when he would undoubtedly lie awake adding the years they might have together if they ever married and he lived a long life. The numbers were depressing.

Shelagh seemed to detect his discomfort and she offered the slightest touch to his wrist. "I used to rush through dinner on the nights when he was to be on a radio program so I could listen in Dad's car."

Patrick frowned with a smile. "In his car?"

"Yes," she let out a tiny laugh, "we didn't have a wireless but he had a Model Y with a radio and I would sit outside in it and listen to Glenn Miller... In the Mood, String of Pearls... I cried for days when his plane went missing."

He watched her lean back on the couch and rest her head with her eyes closed, listening to the beat of his favorite, Stairway to the Stars. Her fingers were still at his wrist. The brass sang and he swelled with longing for everything that was so near him. He'd known her for so long, yet he knew her so little. Imagine, Shelagh crying in her father's car when she heard Glenn Miller died. He wondered if she had worn glasses then, how she did her hair, what kind of dresses she wore. Now she was close enough to touch, yet he only wanted to look at her in this moment. The song played on and her ankles twitched at the floor, and he noticed her chin tilt a little every time a clarinet played. She knew the song just as well as he did, and the thought connected them in another small, silent way.

He was studying her face when she opened her eyes. Pink leapt to her cheeks just as the tune ended and there was a tiny crackle between melodies, blanketing them in silence. Patrick looked down at the seat between them and slowly opened his hand for hers, not daring to infringe upon her personal space by more than a suggestion. She had been a lone vessel of God for so long that he still didn't feel the right to touch her freely.

When her hand met his and curled into his palm he felt as though that ribbon was pulling his ribs to her once again. The weight of her hand in his, though the smallest of gestures, was the grandest of gifts. As his thumb moved over her knuckles he allowed himself the indulgence of wondering if she had freckles everywhere like they were on the back of her hands, then what she would feel like in his arms dancing around the room.

If he ever stirred up the courage to ask her to marry him he would get to dance with her at their wedding, he thought. For a moment the vision of her in a white dress made him stop moving his thumb over hers. He'd thought it a thousand times a day for weeks and weeks, every day brushing it from his mind. But now in this past week and a half the picture was ever-present, like knowing the sun shone at noon or that fish were in the sea. He pictured her in a wedding dress as if he had already seen it, though in his mind there were no details, no styles or specifics, only the look of her hair and her face and the way she smiled at him - they were always the same. Tonight, with her hand in his, the daydream became more vivid, adding things they would do on their wedding day - laugh, sing, dance, touch, kiss. The thought heated Patrick's face; kissing Shelagh would be one of the crowning moments of his life. He smiled to himself, with hope. She beamed back as the music played and he imagined her laughing as he twirled her in his arms. _When_ he stirred up the courage to propose, he would get to dance with her. He would have to be willing to wait.

Yet the music was there right now, and she was there right now. and there was no use in pretending she was not breathing deeply as their eyes locked; even The Glenn Miller Orchestra could not drown out that sound. With a bolt of courage Patrick leaned forward and took her other hand. Shelagh's eyebrows shot up but a light smile played on her lips. Oh, how he longed to tell her everything he could not in the letters. _My dear friend,_ he had written, over and over, finding it unbearable to think of her merely as a sister, yearning desperately for her friendship when he knew he could have nothing more. _My dear friend,_ he had thought all those weeks, day and night, when his mind was not distracted by the tasks of medicine and fatherhood. _My dear friend. _he wanted to shout to her now that she was the dearest thing in his life apart from the boy splashing in the washroom above them, and he wanted her to know it and hear it for the rest of their lives.

Oh, how he wanted to marry her. He wanted to marry her and hold her and see her smile in the morning and laugh when she laughed. He wanted to discover everything she discovered in her new life, teach her and show her things that a nun could never learn without sin. He wanted to hear about her father's car radio and the cigarettes she stole from his desk drawer and what her favorite books were as a child. He wanted to spend days and nights and months and years with her hand near enough to him that he could take it and kiss it whenever he desired. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted... The list was never-ending, growing with each breath she took, each flutter of her eyelashes. Marry me, Shelagh, marry me and make me the happiest man in the galaxy and I will love you till my dying day.

Patrick took an unsteady breath. "Shelagh... Will you..." But no, the timing was not right, it was too soon after she had left her old life, and Timothy was upstairs, and the words were all jumbled in his head. He tried for the next best thing when _will you marry me_ failed to fall from his tongue. "Will you dance with me?"

As quickly as her smile had come so it disappeared, and a look unlike any he had seen on her face appeared. Was it fear? Confusion? Distrust? He wondered, instantly regretting having asked her, watching two small creases appear between her eyebrows as she turned her head away and looked at her feet.

"No, I'd rather not, Patrick."

He loosened his grip on her hands - he hadn't realized it was so tight - and said, "I'm sorry, Shelagh, I didn't mean to... Forget I said it." Silly as it was, Patrick felt as though a much bigger question had been turned down, though Shelagh had no way of knowing. There was a boulder in his gut that he knew was ridiculous.

She looked at him again - oh, those eyes would be the source of his undoing - and her gaze remained vexed. "Patrick, it's just that..."

And at precisely that moment Timothy bounded into the room in his bathrobe and pajamas and wet hair and exclaimed, "All right, I'm all clean! Who wants to read me a bedtime story?"


	2. Chapter 2

The plan had been to make them laugh. He'd thought all about it all through his bath, where he practiced just how he would say it. He knew if Shelagh laughed then Dad would laugh, too. But something had gone wrong. Timothy knew he was too old for bedtime stories, at least too old for an adult to read to him, and that's what was funny. Perhaps he had delivered the line wrong. Their faces were a little sad-looking when he turned the corner, and before even half the sentence was out of his mouth Timothy felt he had intruded upon their privacy.

Shelagh recovered first, smiling at him from the couch and slipping her hands from Dad's as though Tim would not see. Dad pretended not to notice, but Tim saw him squeeze one hand into a fist like it was empty without Shelagh's.

"A bedtime story?" his father asked skeptically.

Timothy shrugged. "You could read me your medical journals if you want. That would put me to sleep. Or Shelagh could read me the Bible!"

Dad cleared his throat and stood suddenly, blocking Shelagh from view. He seemed tense but then he smiled and growled, "All right, I'll tuck you in. Say goodnight to Auntie Shelagh."

"'Night, Auntie Shelagh. Thanks for the chocolate biscuits and playing chess."

"Good night, Timothy. We'll finish our game tomorrow."

He beamed as Dad crossed the room and turned him toward the hall with a hand on his shoulder. He was pleasantly surprised that it remained there all the way up the stairs, even when Shelagh wasn't there to see. Dad was a lot more affectionate now that Shelagh was around. He was always nudging Timothy or mussing his hair whenever he was within reach. He hadn't done that for a long time, and now he was even doing it when she wasn't looking. Outside his bedroom Timothy smiled up at his father, only to be met with a blank expression staring unseeing into the dark room.

"Dad? Is everything all right?" He tried to hide the concern in his voice, but it was evident that Dad heard it because he instantly changed his facial expression to a pleasant smile that could have fooled him if he hadn't known the man better.

"Yes, everything's perfectly all right, son. Just a bit tired, that's all." The unconvincing smile was forced upwards as his top lip folded under the bottom, and he squeezed Timothy's shoulder before releasing him and flicking on the light.

Timothy didn't move. "Are you sure? Because I thought you and Shelagh looked a bit cross just now and -"

"We're not cross, Tim, I promise."

"- and if you made her cross you should apologize, Dad, she's so great and it would be really terrible if you made her sad. Did you make her sad?"

Dad scowled at the floor and brought a hand up to rub his nose. Timothy knew he was thinking - Dad always touched his face when he was thinking - and he toyed with the tie of his robe for a time before his father spoke.

"Timothy, will you get into bed? There's something we need to talk about."

Oh, boy. Here it comes. Timothy felt a nervous flutter in his stomach as he took off his robe and slowly drew back the covers. He moved Cuthbert, hidden beneath his pillow, before sliding in and wiggling his bare toes against the cold sheets. Unable to look at his father, Timothy began playing with a loose string on his quilt, expecting the worst. Whenever Dad had "something we need to talk about" the something was almost always bad. Grown ups didn't know they did that: had some very neutral phrase that terrified children. If they just came out with it instead of prefacing it with whatever well-meaning introduction they chose, the weight of the blow could be cut in half.

He was still pulling at the string when Dad tugged his desk chair around and took a seat. A quick look told Timothy that this was very serious indeed. Dad's eyebrows were all mashed together in one bushy lump, and he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and continued to look at his shoes. When Timothy leaned over the edge of his bed to see that there was nothing interesting about his father's shoes, his hand stilled and he stared straight into his eyes.

Dad's fingertips all came together and he tilted his head to one side to look at Timothy. He did this sometimes, mostly when he thought Tim didn't see him, but he pretty much always did. If he caught him Dad would look away or smile. Timothy wondered if he was sad or happy when he stared like that, if he was remembering or predicting.  
The two Turners sat for several quiet moments, eyeing each other, until at last Dad's eyes crinkled at the corners and he broke into a wide smile. Timothy released a breath he forgot he was holding and smiled nervously right back.

Dad let his eyes fall to his hands again and Tim's followed, noting the bare finger that once held his mother's ring, now naked since the day after they found Shelagh on the road together. Eight days it had been gone. He didn't mind too much that it was absent because he had never really noticed it before, yet it was still odd to see his father without a wedding ring, like any other unmarried man.

"Timothy, I'd like to ask you something. Or ask your opinion about something." Dad waited, then took a quick look at Timothy, who was still staring at his hand. When their eyes met it was enough invitation for the elder Turner to proceed. "What would you think about Auntie Shelagh coming to live with us?"

Timothy felt his eyes widen to the point of becoming dry in the inside corners. He blinked, letting his bottom lip come away from the top in astonishment. To say he was surprised would be an understatement; it was a surprise topped only by the knowledge that the woman in his living room right now used to be a nun. He wasn't so stunned that Dad wanted to marry her - that's what he was _really_ saying, he knew - but what shocked him most completely was how quickly the subject had come up. Why, it had only been _nine days_ since they picked her up and brought her to Nonnatus House! They had seen Shelagh every day since then, sometimes late at night and sometimes she spent the whole day with them, and it had all been really great. Dad hadn't seemed so glad for ages and ages, and Shelagh was so funny and clever and nice that he had soon forgotten that she was a nun less than two weeks ago.

This was the thought that came barreling through all others. "Live with us? But she's a nun!" He hated hearing the stupid words in his own voice, hated himself for saying them and making his father's face drain of all color.

"She's not a nun anymore, Timothy. She's a regular person, a regular woman like... like..." It was rare for Tim to see his father grasping for words. He was such an intelligent man, so sure most of the time, that the sight was unsettling. "She's a regular woman now, Tim, and we've become very good friends, Shelagh and I..." There was that look of confusion on his face again. His mouth kept opening and closing with no words spoken.

"Do you want to marry her, Dad? Is that what you mean by her living with us?" Timothy wanted to hear the words himself instead of having to pick through generalizations. "Do you want to be married to her?"

The changing posture of his dad drew his attention and gave Timothy a better answer than any words ever could have. The man's shoulders relaxed and his mouth softened, the corners floating upwards. Again he stared without seeing at his feet, but the torment of a few seconds ago was replaced with an easy calmness. His eyes were smiling, and Timothy wondered if he was thinking about Shelagh now or Shelagh in the future or even back when Shelagh was Sister Bernadette. A smirk crossed Dad's face and he looked up at Timothy again.

"Yes, I think I do want to be married to her." He laughed a tiny soundless laugh and smiled in full, leaning back in the chair and clapping his hands to his knees. "What would you think about that?"

The words came before Timothy could stop them. "Oh, smashing, Dad! I think that would be really, really great! I can tell you like her and she likes you so much, you're all she ever talks about or asks me about! And there are loads of things she likes to do. And her cooking's gotten so much better even in a week so she'll be really good soon. Is she going to leave the boarding house tonight and stay here? She can have my room if it's only going to be a little while. I'll have to clean up though..."

And as he tossed the covers from his legs and leapt to the floor to collect pencils and paper strewn over many days, he heard his father laugh. It was a sound that had become so rare and unfamiliar until the last nine days that it still surprised Timothy. But the earnestness of the happiness in his favorite person in the whole world made Timothy light up inside like one of the firecrackers he wasn't supposed to play with. He was scooping things into a pile and shoving them under the bed and into drawers, so happy he thought he could burst. Shelagh, come live with them! There could be someone to come home to again, someone to cook and help with schoolwork and tuck him in at night. He didn't even mind that she might scold him every once in a while, since she had never been a stepmother before and probably wasn't very good at it.

"Now hold on, Tim, hold on!" Timothy felt a large hand on his shoulder and he twisted to see his father grinning down at him and could not help but smile himself. "You don't have to clean your room right now. I haven't even asked her yet!"

In the silence after his chuckle they could hear the crescendo of another Glenn Miller song on the album Shelagh had requested. She must have flipped it to the other side. Timothy rose from the floor and sat on the bed knee-to-knee facing Dad.

"You haven't asked her yet?"

The smile faded slightly from his face, replaced with a slight nervous look. "No, not yet."

"Are you going to get her a ring?"

"Oh, well... I suppose."

"You've got to get her a ring, Dad, to make it official. And girls like rings... I think." He hadn't put much stock in girls before, but a lot of ladies wore rings so they must like them, right? "When are you going to ask her?"

All of a sudden Dad blanched (that was a word from vocabulary lesson, and Timothy was proud to witness it firsthand). He seemed to be fighting some sort of battle in his mind. He turned his head toward the door and the music and the knowledge of Shelagh downstairs and then back to Timothy. "I'm not sure, Timothy, it's too soon after she left the church..."

Dad wasn't really talking to him, Tim realized, but he'd asked and would receive his opinion. "It's not too soon at all, Dad! You've known each other ages and ages, it's just now she's wearing different clothes. You should ask her soon. Ask her after the prenatal clinic tomorrow! I've got Cubs all day so she won't have to be here!"

His father's head snapped up in shock and he studied the child on the bed before him, squinting a bit and then grinning a bit. When he shook his head and laughed a puff from his nose Timothy knew he had made an effective point.

"All right, then. We'll talk about how to go about it tomorrow before you leave for Cubs."

"You mean I can help?" Timothy almost shouted.

Dad laughed heartily as he stood. "Yes, of course you can help. Now get into bed before she begins to suspect we're up here plotting."

Timothy slid beneath the covers for the second time that night and grinned crookedly up at his father. "Well we are, aren't we?"

There was more laughter as Dad tucked the quilt around him and made no comment as Timothy snuggled Cuthbert into his shoulder. Dad's big thumb rubbed his damp hair and smiled.

"Good night, Timothy."

"'Night, Dad. I'll dream up some really great way to get Shelagh to marry us, just you wait."

Dad was shaking his head and smiling with one hand on the doorknob and the other on the light switch. As the room plunged into darkness Tim's eyes adjusted to the black outline of the man in the doorway and heard a low rumbling voice that could not hide the smiling mouth from which it came. "Goodnight, son."

When the door closed softly behind Dad, Timothy breathed in deeply and exhaled through a grin. Shelagh, coming to live with them, wow! Dad would need some help, that's for sure. He was hopeless when it came to sentimental things, rubbish at gift-giving and stumbled over most loving gestures. But those who knew him knew he meant well by the effort he put into everything. Maybe Tim could help him with those things, with the words or the gift. He imagined pictures he could draw or poems he could write for the woman who would become his father's wife. There were so many things that reminded him of her: butterflies, bandages, churches, three-legged races, that picture she had painted and mailed to him that he had pinned to the wall above his bed. Pictures and words and even a little music began to run together in his young, excited mind, and when his eyes finally closed he was lulled into a deep and happy sleep, dreaming of clouds and diamond rings and mothers.


	3. Chapter 3

She'd not meant to hurt him, but the question had come out of nowhere and there were too many things preventing her from agreeing to Patrick's request. For a start, Shelagh had never really learned how to dance. There had been a little twirling when she was a child, but no one had ever shown her how to properly dance with a man.

The second barrier to a spin around the floor in Patrick's arms was one that spoke to her loudly in the form of throbbing pain. Her feet felt as though they were covered in blisters, all down the sides and on her heels, thanks to the shoes she had bought while Timothy and Patrick waited for her in the rain nine days ago. They had seemed acceptable at the time of purchase, but a week and a half of walking in a heel and narrow toes left her wishing she hadn't thrown away her scuffed old utility shoes so hastily.

Patrick and Timothy were still upstairs. She couldn't hear them over the music playing on the record player and wondered when Patrick would return, but the pain in her toes was so excruciating that she daringly slipped her shoes off with a sharp intake of breath through her teeth. The stinging was momentarily worse and then subsided as air got to the blisters and her feet were freed from their unwanted confines. _This is what you get for exercising vanity, Shelagh,_ she scolded herself. With a daring peek at her feet she remembered how often they had been covered dutifully in black woolen stockings, and how pale they were from years without sunlight. There was a tiny smattering of freckles on the top of each foot, acquired from her days in the sun as a child running in the meadows barefoot. Slowly she flexed her sore toes, wishing that she could cast aside the guilt that went with blossoming vanity and a deep-rooted embrace of worldly poverty long enough to purchase a new pair of less injurious shoes. But she was a stubborn woman just as she had been a stubborn child, and these shoes would have to do for the time being.

What exactly was the time being, though? She wondered as she gazed around the room. Patrick had been so kind in welcoming her into his home. Neither had felt any discomfort in his asking her to stay with Timothy the afternoon after she left the sanitorium. Since then she'd been here many hours, and she loved finding subtle clues into the lives and personalities of the Turners.

She had discovered Timothy to be just as untidy as his father. No matter how many times Shelagh tried to clean up after him, the next day she would inevitably find drawing supplies or menageries of toy animals scattered all over the house. Then there was the childlike love of all things sea-related reflected in the items and paintings along the walls. Timothy loved them because his father loved them, and she once caught him piling his animals into the model ship on the far side of the living room, preparing them for a long voyage to the Brazilian rainforest where they would be freed and sent to reclaim a new territory.

Shelagh half-giggled to herself at the thought and rotated her ankles a bit more to let them feel free. She would have to find a way tell Patrick that she was not declining his offer to dance because she didn't want to. Quite the opposite, in fact; she wanted to very badly. Until now she had had nine lovely days of gentle touches to her elbows and hands. Hers were perfectly made to fit into his, there was no doubt about that. Yet with each touch, or even each time she caught him looking at her, Shelagh felt a stirring inside her heart that she had thought long buried by vows and rules and devotion to Another. Patrick was awakening so many feelings in her – mental and physical – and it was all new to her as though she were a schoolgirl. She'd never been free to desire a man – and that was what it was, if she were being honest with herself – and with every day that passed she was learning something new about herself.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a nearby thump of heel on stair that alerted her to Patrick's presence. She quickly grappled for her shoes while her poor toes screamed to be free just a moment longer.

"Well, he's all tucked in and still jabbering," she heard Patrick laugh as he walked down the hall, "But I think eventually we will have to let him stay up late and - Shelagh, what are you doing?"

She had struggled to put her shoes back on before he could see her, but the stubborn things had not cooperated. She could only imagine how silly she looked to him as he stood in the doorway, watching her bend at the waist on his sofa, twisting to return a shoe to her foot while the other lay on its side on the floor.

There was no use in lying to him. The few words that they had ever said to each other – more coming now that she had shed the habit - had all been truthful. She did not want to start fibbing for the sake of vanity.

"Oh, it's these shoes," she said with her eyes lowered. "I suppose I'm not used to them yet. They've given me fits today."

Patrick took two strides to stand before her and she had to stop herself from being mesmerized by his height. Goodness he was handsome.

"That's why I turned down your dance," she admitted. "I'm sorry."

She watched as a visible wave of relief washed over him and his eyes lit. He stood above her, mouth unable to form the right words, and then he said, "Do you... would you like me to take a look at it?"

Shelagh found herself grinning despite herself and glanced at her foot before finding his eyes high above her. "Do you have a plaster?"

His smile curved one way; of course he had a plaster, he was a doctor, wasn't he? Without a word he went to his medical bag in the hall and rummaged through, then returned to stand before her. Shelagh had extended her hand for the bandage but assumed he must not have seen, because he fell to one knee on the floor and examined her foot before looking straight into her eyes. There it was again, she thought: that warm comfort she felt with him, dancing within the amber flecks in his eyes which were smiling for her. She watched them flicker down to her foot again - she had no qualms about him administering the treatment himself, though the quickened beating of her heart told her that she was nervous - and when he looked at her face she found herself holding her breath and trying desperately not to glance at his lips.

"Your stockings..." His voice was on the edge of cracking, and while it was quiet she thought it sounded thicker than usual. There was something in his eyes that told her he wanted to say more. She'd felt it earlier as well, when they were holding hands and he was smiling at her. But for now she forgot about it and looked at her silk-clad legs. That dancing in her stomach fired up again as her face burned crimson from the embarrassment of their predicament. Should she rise and take her stockings off? Bring the plaster into the washroom and put it on there? A flashing thought of him removing the stockings, fingers on her thighs, knuckles running down the insides of her knees made her ears burn and turn beet red. _Gather yourself, Shelagh._

"I'll just..." she managed to squeak, not knowing how to end the sentence.

She stood a little shakily, touched his shoulder and walked through to the other side of the kitchen hatch. She knew he could see her lean down and disappear to peel the stocking from her leg, and even the cold tile could not calm the warmth in her heart or settle its erratic thumping. Some part of her that had not yet been forgotten told her to be more modest, but she countered its warning by the comfort she felt with Patrick and in his home. She could never feel immodest around him.

When she rounded the corner with the shed stocking bunched in one hand, he was still kneeling on one bent knee before the sofa, still waiting for her. She had a moment of hope that he would someday soon be on his knee asking her to be his, but she brushed it aside as she always had. His smile, his eyes, his almost painful crinkled brow and the tilt of his head - they all made her smile bashfully and lower her eyes to the floor. Shelagh felt she would never become used to his admiration. She took his extended hand and settled on the couch once more, this time with no barrier between her civilian wound and the doctor's hands. When he took the heel of her foot in his palm she found herself quite unable to breathe.

She'd never been touched before. Not like this, not so intimately and so lovingly. Not by a man. Her ankle looked so tiny in Patrick's hand that she involuntarily twitched her foot to convince herself that it was indeed her own. He was barely touching her, unknowingly tickling her while attempting to attach the plaster to her blistered toe. Once it was on, Patrick ran his fingers over the bandage a few more times than was absolutely necessary; shocks flew from her toes up her spine and to her ears.

She hadn't kissed this man for whom she had left behind an entire life. The one time he had kissed her palm she had not been free to tell him her own heart. Since then Patrick had been nothing but a gentleman, though at times Shelagh thought she saw a desire much like the one stirring inside her own body reflected in his dark eyes. Their short courtship had so far been filled with the loveliest, tenderest touches that had evolved from the most chaste of smiles and glances. She felt she could never become used to the way her body lit up when his hand held hers. Lately - in the past few days, really, as their nonprofessional relationship was still only less than two weeks old - his fingers would grasp her hand in a more urgent way when he reached for her. All her adult life Shelagh had feared any sort of contact with a man, and though she thought it would take more time to give in to her feelings for the doctor who had stolen her heart, she had been wrong.

She had been so wrong.

Patrick still held her foot in his hand now, was holding it like it was the most precious thing he'd ever held, and slowly he began caressing it. First he ran his thumb down the tender arch, causing her to flex her toes. His other hand began to softly knead the ball of her foot. For a brief moment Shelagh's eyes fluttered closed. While his knowing hands seemed to heal her and make her stomach dance, there was one thought that was constant: comfort. Everything about being with Patrick was comfortable. At this moment, with his thumbs massaging the softness at the back of her ankle, he was trying his utmost to make her comfortable. The pressure in his fingers was mounting and receding, soothing the feet that were used to old, worn shoes and not fashionable modern pumps. Everywhere he touched relaxed: her toes, her instep, the soft tops of her foot. Shelagh found herself leaning back on the sofa and relaxing her entire leg. She had felt comfortable in the religious life until him. Comfort was not in the physical for her but the spiritual, in the gladness she received from fulfilling her many duties and striving to prove herself through her vocation. Yet the discontent - the discomfort - she'd felt this year had been brutal, even becoming physical to some extent. And then there was Patrick and his son and she realized all that discomfort had been for good reason: she had been searching for them. Now that she had found them, that she was here and he was here with her, there was only comfort in his presence. Yes, there were moments of shyness and naivety that were bound to continue, but he did his utmost to help her move past them. In his hands she felt safe, and when her eyes opened as his hands moved together to take away her pain, she could not help but smile.

His gentleness spoke to her where words never could. Here, on he soft arch of her foot, he said _I love you_. At her ankle he said, _I missed you_. His fingers wrote her poems on the smooth skin atop her foot, his thumbs drawing the words on her heels. _Thank you for returning to me, thank you for loving my son, I love you, don't ever leave again, I love you_. She heard the words as if he were saying them with his own voice, though the only sound in the room was the soft music on the record she had turned while he was upstairs. Neither could take their eyes from his ministrations, neither could dare to look in the other's eyes. This was as intimate as he had ever been with her, as intimate as she had ever been with any man, and though he was only rubbing her feet as any person could easily do, Shelagh found her breath ragged as it escaped her lungs. When he took her other foot in his hands some distant carnal part of her instantly regretted not removing both stockings. This time his fingers slid over her feet with practice, rubbing just the places that ached the most, easing them into quiet comfort while carefully avoiding the half-blistered redness on her toes.

She didn't realize how unfocused her eyes had become until he gently placed her heel to the floor. When she lifted her hooded eyes to his face his eyes were firmly resting on her knee. It seemed silly, but she distinctly felt he was averting his gaze from hers. From this angle she was looking down the bridge of his nose, at the tops of his eyelashes and not the bottoms, at the deep creases in his forehead and the way his hair twisted from the crown of his head to throw a wave over his brow. Undeniably she found that she liked him from every angle, and her lips pursed in smile that she found was uncontrollable whenever she discovered this sort of thing.

As if he knew what she was thinking, Patrick raised his eyes without raising his chin, parting his lips slightly as he peered from under his eyebrows. She saw his eyes flicker to her lips and away so suddenly that she wondered if she had just wished it. His lips closed again and she watched him swallow so slowly that his temples twitched.

"Better?" he whispered, though the silence of the past few minutes made his simple utterance feel like a tolling bell alerting them to some grand momentous occasion.

"Yes, much." Shelagh's voice was just as quiet as his, a little breathless, and her eyes danced. "Thank you." Then, a moment later, "I'm sorry about the dance."

The music had stopped and the needle was crackling on a ridge of silence. She hadn't noticed, and nor, it seemed, had Patrick. He shook his head.

"Don't think of it. We'll have time to dance."

"I'm not sure I know how," she said a little bashfully, praying he would offer to teach her.

"We have all the time in the world," he chorused again, locking his eyes with hers and taking a hand from her lap. He stroked the third finger of her left hand before whispering into the silent room.

"May I walk you home?" It was something he always asked, no matter how late the evening. She routinely declined, taking the time to clear her head in the evening air while she walked back to her lodgings.

Shelagh's eyebrows twitched slightly. Yes, she wanted him to walk her home tonight. She wanted this evening, with all of its intimacies and newness, to never end. But... "What about Timothy?"

Patrick shrugged with a wry smile, "He'll be fine."

She nodded then, and for the first time she watched his eyes delight in her acceptance of his offer. He pushed himself up off one knee and extended a hand to help her from the couch. Regretfully she teetered as she slipped her feet into the cursed shoes; his hand held her steady all the while. They did not speak as she gathered her handbag and he helped her on with her coat, held the door and touched her draped back as she stepped into the night.

They walked the streets with his hand on her elbow, never moving. They did still not speak, each noting the familiarity of their silence, the comfort of not needing to fill their time with empty words. The streets were busy as usual, even after dark, and Patrick tipped his hat to several people who greeted them, yet he did not show any desire to stop to talk to them. Shelagh steered them toward her lodgings, out of the quieter part of town where Patrick lived to the nearby bustling area where the boarding house stood.

At the bottom of the steps Patrick stopped reluctantly before waiting for her to move first. She could feel his hesitancy on the elbow he still held with each stair they climbed, and with a sad pang felt disconnected when his hand dropped and they stood facing each other before the door.

Patrick cleared his throat and said, "Timothy has a Cubs day tomorrow, so you don't need to..."

A pebble of disappointment lodged high in Shelagh's throat. The happy coincidence of Timothy's school holiday and her new daytime availability had been the most obvious reason for her to come to their house every day. Its rewards unfolded and multiplied each day she came as she learned about this boy with whom she was becoming irrevocably enamored and the father he adored. Through Timothy Shelagh was learning Patrick's lifestyle and routine, quickly making them hers. But if the boy was to be occupied all day tomorrow, there was no promise of seeing Patrick without invitation. The idea of having an evening to themselves, unchaperoned, brought to mind so many possibilities that Shelagh studied a small puddle near their feet for a beat longer than absolutely necessary, trying to hide her thoughts.

"Oh I see," she finally said. "I needed to do some shopping anyway..." She resisted the urge to look at his face and wrung her hands. _But I still want to see you! Am I only a useful to you as a nursemaid, Patrick?_ She squeezed her own hand harder recalling the way he had touched her tonight and knew it wasn't true, yet the silence between them did not help her feeling of disappointment as it drew on.

"Shelagh," Patrick half-whispered in that way if his. Her eyes did not move from her hands so he touched them and she freely gave one to him. She made a mental note that she needed to buy gloves before winter. "Shelagh, I still want to see you tomorrow. Will you meet me at the parish hall after clinic is over?"

The smile on her face was impossible to hide even in the foggy darkness. When she finally allowed her eyes to meet his they were filled with joy while his held nervousness in their depths.

"Yes, of course."

He released an audible sigh of relief and she felt comforted yet again in their shared uneasiness.

"Then I'll see you tomorrow," he muttered with half a grin before raising the hand he held until it was level with her heart, beating wildly beneath her breastbone. While his fingers stroked her downturned palm his long thumb ran over her knuckles. Slowly his other hand lifted and he touched one of the tan freckles near her own thumb. The hand he was not holding was locked in a fist at her side as though jealous of the attention being given to its twin. When Patrick slowly turned her hand until the palm was toward him his fingers followed the length of hers then stilled near the center. He was touching her so gently that it tickled, though she almost felt faint from the desire for it to continue. Why had he stopped? She wondered, holding her breath until she felt his eyes locked on her face. Her own were like molasses as they made the ascent over his overcoat and up his throat, chin, and nose. When they settled on his dark eyes she took a breath that caught in her throat. Patrick's eyes fell to her palm and her gaze followed once more, and when he lifted one finger to touch the scar that still showed from that day after the race months ago, the tingling in the soft muscle that stretched between her neck and shoulders made her feel she would burst right here on this step in front of all of Poplar and there would be no way to stop it.

When Patrick touched the scar again the stirring in her body caused her to close her hand, pull it gently from his, and hold her fingers over the place he had touched. She could feel him still pressed there, she thought, and offered a shy smile as a reward for his attentions. His face was hard to read in the dark with the streetlamp behind him, but she could still see his eyes darting around her face and hair, as if he were planning the next place he would like to touch.

The thought jolted Shelagh. "Goodnight, Patrick," and then, as she had said every day for nine days, "thank you."

"Good night, Shelagh," he stuffed his hands in his pockets and tilted his head to the side so the brim of his hat shadowed his face completely. He turned slowly and hopped down the steps to the street below. Just as she was about to rummage in her handbag for her key she caught sight of Patrick turning around to take one more look at her.

"See you tomorrow," he softly called over the sound of footsteps and laughter at a restaurant nearby. "Sleep well." He turned and began to walk away for good now, and Shelagh stood frozen, staring at the soft swoosh of his overcoat until he disappeared around a corner.

As she lifted a shaky key to the lock Shelagh knew that, with or without Patrick's wish, she would not be sleeping much at all tonight.


	4. Chapter 4

He hadn't noticed color for a long time. It had been unimportant to his life, forgotten for so long that he hadn't realized its absence. Yet on the walk home after leaving Shelagh at her lodgings, Patrick was stricken with the beauty of color as though he had been blinded and suddenly given his sight. Above him a night sky of muddy purple created a canvas for various blue-gray puffs of steam and smoke. The lampposts and lit windows he passed tinted the darkness with a white film spilling from their hot yellow centers. The lazy sound of his own footsteps drew his eyes to the ground, dingy brown with a constant dampness that left ink-black spots where feet had walked and left their temporary mark. He tipped his head back and breathed in the dusky green fog that hovered, then caught his hat as it began to fall.

Tomorrow he would ask Shelagh to marry him.

The thought once again brought about a whirling of imagined color: the pink of her cheeks, the blue of her eyes, the warm dark hair at her temples like damp sand on the edge of a golden shore. Tomorrow he would ask her to marry him and take her hand, kiss it freely if she accepted him, hold her close if he dared.

His footsteps seemed to murmur his thoughts as his door came into view. _She-lagh, She-lagh, She-lagh_, they chanted, and it was the song of her name that brought him home. He hung his hat and coat in the dark hall and turned to the sitting room to extinguish the light. Patrick's hand stilled on the lamp pull as his eyes glided across the room. It was as if he was seeing it anew; the colors his eyes caught surprised him consciously for the first time because they all had something to do with Shelagh. There was the marigold chair where she sat mending one of Timothy's socks three nights ago. There was the mahogany curtain that she had cast aside when he'd found her in the kitchen at lunchtime two days ago, where he had marveled at the brightness the room took on and gave her presence all the credit. The blue tea towel that had known her hands was draped over the kitchen hatch, near a green button she had found beneath the sofa cushions. Tiny bursts of color – blue here, red here, a touch of violet there – they all swirled and painted his home in a way that Patrick had forgotten was possible.

Finally he let the room plunge into darkness and took the stairs up to check on Timothy, quietly dozing with his bear still tucked into his shoulder, then retreated to his own room. The light was unnecessary as he washed his face and undressed, pulled on his old pajamas and slid beneath the covers, wiggling his toes against the smooth, cool fabric as he had seen his son do earlier that evening. Without warning the sensation reminded him of the smoothness of Shelagh's skin, and his heartbeat quickened.

He had been right about the freckles.

Her feet were scattered with very few of them, but they were there. He'd had no way to avoid staring at them once her foot was in his hand, and there had been no way to stop himself from touching every one he saw. They mapped out the path his fingers would take once he touched her feet. The little spots were the color of tea with milk, various sizes. With each one he had wondered how many more there were sprinkled over the rest of her skin. Amazingly she had not protested when he had rubbed her feet for her; in fact he got the distinct impression she was desiring his touch just as much as he longed for hers. He hated that what brought them together in that way was her pain – _damn those shoes!_ – but marveled in the closeness that had resulted. When he had touched her foot at first it was with the intention of a doctor: heal the wound, heal the patient. But he hadn't anticipated that first curl of her toes, and with it came an instinctual urge within himself to soothe her pain in more ways than a bandage. It reminded him of the shameful time he had kissed her hand in the parish hall, when she was forbidden and he was weak with the ache of love he could not verbalize. Since then he had controlled himself mercifully, even though on the first afternoon they spent together last week, when he again apologized to Shelagh for his conduct that day, she said she had forgiven him long ago.

As the silent minutes pressed on in his dark bedroom, Patrick wondered if she was still as sure as he was about their budding relationship. She'd made no comments to the contrary, and in fact her very presence in his house every day spoke of her growing devotion to Timothy and caring for the two of them. Yet the disbelief he held every time he looked at her so near him hung silently inside his chest, and he constantly feared it would strike its blow and tear his heart in two for good.

_Don't be daft, Turner. _He rounded on himself, beating a fist into the pillow near his ear. _She wouldn't have let you touch her – ever – if she didn't feel something for you_. The truth comforted him for the time being, and once again he thought of her soft hands and feet, with their little caramel spots on porcelain skin. He made a promise into the dark silence that he would one day find and kiss all of her freckles, dimples, and scars if she agreed to marry him. With one hand tossed above his head on the pillow and the other draped across his chest, Patrick smiled, closed his weary eyes and waited for sleep to come.

Three hours later he was still awake and frustration began to take over and exhaust him even further. His thoughts had found no peace and no order, shooting sparks of what had gone on hours before and what would happen the next day, mingling them with memories of a tiny nun and a smile he could bask in for days without ever turning away. Shelagh consumed his thoughts entirely, and thoughts of Shelagh danced with thoughts of Timothy and how glad he had been at Patrick's question. His son's words had warmed his soul – "I can tell you like her and she likes you so much," he had said – and repeated over and over in his mind as the night's hours drifted past him and the sea-blackness of the ceiling turned to hazy blue.

He wondered how he should ask her, and if Timothy really could play any role in it. Part of Patrick wanted his son there with him to ask this woman to complete their family, yet the predominant part of him was thankful Timothy would be in the countryside today. His absence would give Patrick time to sit and think, even if it was only time snatched between patient cubicles, not having to worry about his son being home alone or what they might scrounge up for their evening meal. With a smile at this thought Patrick scratched his chin with the hand that had been laying on his ribs. Shelagh had solved that problem for them, and though it had only been a week's worth of cookery, and inexperienced cookery at that, her meals were already far more appetizing than anything he had been able to make for the pair over the last two years. Both he and Timothy were grateful and encouraging, Timothy even writing her a little note one evening while she prepared a stew.

"Patrick, look what he gave me," she'd said on the sixth day, after Timothy had padded up the stairs to bed. She took a paper from the apron that used to be Timothy's mother's and handed it to him.

_Thank you for cooking because Dad always burns everything. Timothy. _He'd drawn a tiny border of spoons around the writing. The words had made Patrick laugh so hard that Shelagh had joined in until they each had tears at the corners of their eyes. Shelagh had eventually folded the paper and tucked it gently into her handbag with a loving smile.

Timothy had always had a way with words. Even as a baby he'd babbled on and on, and as soon as he could read and write he was creating stories with little pictures to go along. When Timothy was a tiny boy Patrick had a drawer in the surgery that had been full of his drawings. After his wife died Patrick had taken them home and buried them in her drawer in their bureau, for their son had almost exclusively drawn family portraits from the time he'd learned that there were five fingers on each hand. After her death the drawings became too difficult and distracting for Patrick to see in his place of work and he convinced himself they were safer at home. Timothy's drawings had continued and grown more skillful, but the subject matter changed to ships and animals, things which Patrick could look at and not feel the pain of loss. The pictures were often given as gifts to friends or relatives, and Patrick was frequently the one playing postman. The first time he had given Sister Monica Joan one of Timothy's drawings of a goldfinch, she had recited lines from some poem he did not know. Nurse Franklin had received a giraffe sketch and she'd given Tim his first kiss on the cheek, after which his face seemed to burn scarlet clear through suppertime.

The drawing that had alerted Patrick to a change in Timothy – and himself – had been one he still thought of often. Tim had asked him to deliver it, but it sat folded and forgotten in his pocket for a week until he'd found it and finally looked at it. With a knot in his throat he saw Sister Bernadette, Timothy, and the sun that seemed to shine whenever she was near. Timothy had obviously felt the same way, and it had stirred a hope in Patrick that was not free for him to claim. Angry at himself for indulging in that hope, he had folded the drawing and stuffed it back in his pocket where it firmly remained another week, with him conscious of its presence before he finally relinquished it to Sister Julienne.

It seemed so long ago now, Patrick thought, turning to his side in the dark and extending a hand to the empty pillow beside him. That drawing was from another lifetime, yet now he could see that it was also one of the seeds planted to grow this new life that he hoped to begin. Silly, he yawned, to think that something as small as a child's drawing could play such an evolutionary part in changing three lives.

Patrick flipped to his back again, the arm tossed above his head once more. Perhaps Timothy could quickly think up something to draw for Shelagh before he had to leave for Cubs. It was a long shot, Patrick knew, understanding that time management was not one of the Turners' greatest attributes. But he still hoped to make Timothy a part of his proposal to Shelagh, and, with another great, painful yawn, Patrick decided to ask his son's opinion on that very subject when the alarm sounded in an hour. Groaning, his last thought as he fell asleep was to wonder where he could purchase a pair of ladies' slippers.


	5. Chapter 5

Timothy's chin was pressed to his chest while he tried to tie his kerchief around his neck. Dad had shown him how to do it so many times, but his fingers were never placed the right way, and it always ended up looking like a little bow instead of a properly tied knot. He'd wanted to do it all himself and be ready for the outing with Bagheera without having to ask for Dad's help, but it looked like he would need it after all.

An odor of burnt toast wafted into his room as Timothy reached for his knapsack. With a scowl he headed toward it, coming up behind Dad in the kitchen as he was trying to pick the charred remains from the toaster, tossing it between tender fingers and leaving black crumbs on the countertop. Timothy didn't move for a moment, watching his father do his best to care for their tiny family in a way that he still hadn't mastered. Rarely a morning went by when Timothy chose Dad's breakfast over a bowl of un-ruinable cereal, though his stomach would groan come eleven o'clock, and he always wished he'd had at least a bit of whatever had been offered. Today there was a pan of eggs on the stovetop and a peeled orange halved and placed on two plates near a messy goo Timothy preferred not to ponder. Dad was already dressed, as usual, wearing a blue jumper that Tim didn't immediately recognize over a white striped shirt. His sleeves were rolled clumsily to his elbows to avoid whatever mess would inevitably stain them.

"Hi, Dad!" Tim shouted in a way he knew would startle his father. He was rewarded with a small jump and a swift turn from his father, whose face was lined with tiredness. He must not have slept well.

But he was smiling as he said, "Good morning, Timothy!" Dad's hand fell on top of Tim's cap and rubbed it a little. "I'll have breakfast ready soon, go ahead and have a seat. Here's your milk."

Tim brought the precariously full glass to the table and dropped his knapsack onto the third chair. In front of the typically unused seat was a small collection of pencils and papers, some with printed designs on the back.

Dad must have noticed the look on his face, because when he placed their two plates on the table he nodded toward the stationary. "We haven't much time. I've got to try to get to the jeweler's before my first appointment. Are you still willing to help me with... er..."

Tim jumped to the edge of his seat. "Oh! With asking Auntie Shelagh to marry you?" He'd almost forgotten! Today was the day Shelagh might agree to be part of their family forever! "Yeah, of course I'll help, Dad, what do you want me to do?"

Their breakfasts lay cooling as each pushed the plates aside. "Well," Dad said in the slow, funny way when he got really excited about something. "I was hoping you could draw her something. She likes your drawings. And your notes."

Timothy's eyes flew to the pencils and papers. He frowned a bit in concentration, trying to think of what kind of picture Dad could want.

"What should I draw?" It seemed a perfectly valid question.

"Whatever you think she would like. You've spent a lot of time with her lately."

That was very true. Tim pursed his lips and twisted them to one side. There were a lot of possibilities, and Shelagh liked a lot of things. Her favorite color was blue, and Dad's was green, so that was a good place to start, he thought, grabbing a paper with green swirls on the back and a blue pencil. She liked flowers and butterflies the most, though whenever they went out for walks Shelagh always made some silly comment about the clouds. They'd learned about clouds in science class, so Timothy was able to tell her which ones were rain clouds or thunder clouds or the ones that were really wispy that looked like feathers. Shelagh had asked him question upon question about them, like she'd never heard anything so interesting in her whole life. That was one of the great things about Shelagh: she was always interested in what Timothy said, even if it was just about dumb old clouds. He liked it when she asked questions, and most especially when she asked about Dad, because it was almost like he was sharing secrets, but not anything that could get him in trouble. Dad was fun to talk about, and Shelagh made it easy to keep talking because she was so nice, and she never ever asked him to stop asking questions like some grown ups did, and she always tried her best to answer them, even if she didn't know something.

Dad was watching him, he knew, closely staring at the first tiny flower that he drew with a wave of inspiration.

He looked up and Dad's face was so close he could smell his shaving lotion. "Do you want it to say anything?"

Dad's eyes blinked hard at the paper for a second or two. Then he sat back and looked really confused. It was like he hadn't even thought about it! How could he expect Timothy to help him when he didn't even know what he wanted? For a minute Timothy became nervous for his father. If he messed up proposing to Shelagh she might not say yes. If she didn't say yes she might not come to see him any more, and if she didn't come here anymore that would be really awful. Tim's heart sank. Dad was going to need a lot more help than he'd realized. He watched as the man stared blankly at the corner of the table.

"What do you think it should say?" The doctor's words were quiet and a little desperate. Dad looked lost and all of a sudden frighteningly nervous.

Timothy shrugged. He was only ten, after all. How could Dad expect him to know what to say? "What do _you_ want it to say, Dad?"

A look crossed his father's face that Timothy had seen before. There was a little bit of fear in his wide eyes, and his lips got tighter together and his eyebrows got a little closer, but not enough that he was frowning or angry-looking. A hand came up and he settled a knuckle in the spot under his nose. Dad's eyes were flicking back and forth, like he was reading an imaginary book. This went on for a while as Timothy watched, hoping Dad would come up with something quick; it was almost time to leave for Cubs and neither of them had eaten anything.

After a while Dad looked at Tim. "Well, if it's coming from you, I suppose it should say, 'Will you marry my dad?' Don't you?"

Timothy pondered. "I think it should say 'please.'"

"Please?"

"Yeah, Dad, you should always ask please, it's good manners." He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Adults could be quite daft sometimes.

A little chuckle came from Dad's throat and he smiled. "'Please will you marry my dad?' How about that?"

Tim nodded once and smiled back. "Good."

He was aware of the eyes following his every move. Between bites of cold eggs and drippy orange Timothy put pencil to paper, noting the time constraint and trying to be precise but swift. Dad was hardly touching his food, but at least he was drinking his tea. The responsibility of making sure Dad ate something in the mornings would be Shelagh's now, and Tim was relieved. He was absolutely sure she would say yes to their proposal, though Dad seemed really jittery. He had nothing to worry about, as far as Tim was concerned; Shelagh looked at his dad in the same way he looked at her. It was a mushy adult look, one that at times made Timothy feel the need to look away or vacate a room entirely. Nevertheless it was there, and if her eagerness to spend her days and evenings with them was any indication of how much she liked them, there was no doubt in Tim's mind that she would say yes.

When he handed it to his father, the paper had wrinkled a little from the sweat of his fingers. He always did that and meant to put another paper between his drawing and his hand, but his haste this morning had led him to forget it again. He hoped it would be okay to give to Shelagh still.

"The paper's a bit crinkled, I'm sorry," he said as he watched Dad read the words over and over. He knew he was taking in the little flowers he'd drawn around the words. Blue and purple, two colors he knew she liked. They hadn't seemed quite enough so he'd added the clouds and the sun in the corner, to balance out all the empty space. It wasn't anything fancy, but Timothy was proud of how neat his handwriting was, even if he had made a couple letters too small. He felt comfortable thinking Shelagh would like it since she liked clouds and sunshine and being outside and things; he just hoped his dad would like it, too.

Dad grinned and Tim felt his nerves settle. "Tim, it's perfect. And I'll use it to wrap the ring so it doesn't matter if there's a wrinkle in it." Dad lowered the paper and got a funny look in his eyes, almost like he was going to cry. Timothy did _not_ want to see his father cry, that was certain, and he quickly dropped his gaze to the paper in his father's hands. "Timothy," Dad said quietly, forcing him to look back into his eyes. "Thank you."

Tim smiled his answer. "Do you have a ribbon?"

Dad's face screwed up. "A ribbon? What for?"

"To tie the box after you wrap it." This time he could not hold back the rolling of his eyes. "The paper will just fall off if you don't tie it."

"Well I haven't got one, have you?"

"No! Only girls have ribbons."

Dad looked concerned and stared at his watch, then the clock on top of the piano to compare. "I'll have to pick one up on the way..." Tim watched his eyes lift like he was counting the time he had before he had to get to his appointments. Dad stood and folded Tim's note delicately and slipped it into the breast pocket of his gray jacket, draped over the third chair at their table.

"All right, Timothy, do you have everything you need? We both need to leave in the next five minutes. Have you brushed your teeth?"

He said it more like a reminder to himself than as a question to Timothy, who shook his head. Of course he hadn't brushed his teeth – they'd just finished breakfast! Dad sure was acting funny... Ten minutes later father and son were rushing out the door, one with a black medical bag and the other a brown knapsack. Timothy was about to cross the street – he was meeting Jack and they were going together – when he heard his name.

"Tim!" Dad stood at his car door and had one hand on the roof of the MG. "Thanks for your help. I'll see you when you get home."

The boy clad in green swelled with pride, knowing that by tonight their whole world might be changing and that he might get to play a part in it. "Good luck, Dad!" he called, waving like a little boy on his first day of school and running across the street backwards. He narrowly missed backing into a streetlamp and watched his father laugh before turning around and running in the direction of Jack's house. A few strides later he stopped, already a little out of breath. There was one more thing.

"Hey, Dad!" Timothy called as he spun around. The Austin's door was open and Dad ducked his head out to face him. "Make sure you get a blue ribbon! Blue's her favorite color!"

Dad laughed again, that lovely smiley laugh that Timothy was quickly becoming accustomed to seeing every day. The man nodded with a grin which was reflected back across the street by his son, who turned and ran down the walk, late once again.


	6. Chapter 6

Shelagh was crying. Her shoulders were hunched, her veil tapping her cheek softly as she trembled, face in her hands, feeling the wet tears on her face beneath her fingers. The strap holding her wimple in place was cutting into her chin, choking her, but the pain was nothing compared to the ache in her heart. _No, please come back,_ she was crying out, _Please come back, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! _The man walking away from her did not turn back at her words, and she wanted to chase him and stop him, but her feet would not move. Her knees were jerking in protest but when she looked down she saw that her feet were bare, blistered, bleeding and unmoving. He was further away now and she had no way to stop him, no way to tell him her feelings, no way to get to him before he was gone. She knew if he disappeared she would never see him again, and the pain was too much to bear as she reached forward and caught sight of the gold band wrapped tightly around the finger of her right hand, binding her in a prison without the man walking away whose form was blurring now from the tears filling her eyes. _Don't go_, she whispered, begging him to hear her. _Please don't leave me_.

The blast of a lorry's backfiring engine woke Shelagh on the tenth day. For a minute she could not understand where she was, why there was sunlight glaring into her cell, why her hair was stuck to her face and strewn over her pillow and not beneath her cap. She was panting in panic from the dream that had trapped her.

Her fingers closed and brushed against her palm as they had a thousand times. It had become an almost unnoticed gesture, but in the wake of the kind of tumultuous emotion that only dreams can elicit, Shelagh was acutely aware of the scar on the heel of her hand. It was her touchstone, and its presence always grounded her. Relief flooded her veins as her surroundings reminded her of everything that had transpired: she was no longer Sister Bernadette, she no longer needed to fear illness, was no longer aching for a life other than the one she had given her promise to live. She was just Shelagh, in her tiny rented room, back in Poplar after leaving the church . Most importantly she remembered: she was no longer forced to be apart from Patrick, and with that thought she let her eyes flutter closed and felt her breathing slow while her heart still raced. Somehow even the gentle reminders were not enough to calm her mind, which was dwelling on the feeling of desertion the dream had left.

Her eyelids stuck together stubbornly with the remnants of tears brought on by her dream, but something in her was still terrified enough that she needed to see the scar instead of just feeling it. When they opened stubbornly, her eyes fixed on the tiny puckered line and ran the fingers of her right hand over it. Patrick had done the same thing last night, once, twice, until she had taken her hand away. His intimacy last night had broken down another wall between them, and it was these thoughts that continued to calm Shelagh in the aftermath of her nightmare.

She rose from her bed, kneeling to pray for several minutes, lengthening her stay on the floor every time thoughts of the man walking away from her crept into her mind. While she washed her face and dressed she pushed the memories of the dream aside. When she left her room and locked it she ignored the terror in her still-rattled heart, counting the stairs as she descended. She tried to distract herself with the goings on in the streets as she walked across town, focusing on the painful feet below her which moved instead of those which had been frozen in her imagination. When she spoke to the clerk at the shoe store and he fitted her for a more conservative pair of shoes, she tried to convince herself that the strangeness of her hurt feet had been what brought on the pain in the dream. It was when she left the store wearing the new shoes, her one chore of the day finished, that she succumbed to the needling bits of nightmare that still floated in her consciousness, and searched for a place to contemplate her feelings fully.

It was a glorious day. She was still avoiding the most traversed areas of Poplar, hoping she would not run into any nuns or midwives. Today was clinic day, however, and the chance of coming face-to-face with any of them in the next six hours was very slim, so she allowed herself a leisurely stroll through the busy streets before reaching her destination.

The park was quiet. She found a bench in the sun and sat with her head back, letting the warmth wash over her face. Most days she would choose a seat under the safe shade of a tree, but today Shelagh felt like being in the sunshine and feeling its unabashed heat prickle her skin and remind her that she was awake. The sky was clear and cloudless, and though she could hear the constant mechanical noise of East London that had become background music to her life, she also heard other sounds. There were birds singing and leaves rustling around her, and somewhere children were running and hooting at each other. It was a perfect day, like something out of a novel that she had never been permitted to read. When a clock rang Shelagh absently wondered how many patients Patrick had already seen this morning, and she imagined him lighting a cigarette, checking his wristwatch, counting the hours until they would be together again.

With a smile and another glance at the green surrounding her, Shelagh wondered if Patrick had ever been to this park. She knew he was a busy man, and any time he did not devote to his practice he lovingly gave to Timothy. But that time was usually spared in the evenings, when the magic of the outdoors would be lost and Patrick would be tired from work. She soon had a picture in her mind of them strolling beneath the arbors and him taking her hand, thrilling her as he always did when he touched her. Perhaps they could pack a picnic someday and bring it here, with Timothy, and sit under the trees. The seasons were changing quickly, but there were still a few lovely days like this left in which the three of them could enjoy the outdoors before cold forced them inside for a few long months.

With a tiny frown her eyes fell to her hands in her lap, clutching her handbag. She wondered where she would be when winter came.

The thought brought her mind back to the fear she'd felt this morning. She'd never set much stock in dreams, yet they'd given her much turmoil over the last months of her struggle with her vocation and trying to understand the feeling that were strengthening for a man she was not allowed. But if her time as a nun had taught her anything it was that God sent signs in the tiniest ways, even in disturbing dreams. Everything with Patrick and Timothy was going so well, and she felt selfish in desiring more than their company. Yet the question of her future hung before her as it did not for them. Her life was filled with uncertainties in every aspect but her heart: Where would she be staying long-term? What would she do with her time once Timothy returned to school? How long until her money ran out? For the Turners it was quite the opposite: their lives in their home were established and routined, unmarked by such questions. The only change was Shelagh's recent daily appearance, and though deep down she acknowledged she was underestimating her own importance to them, she also knew that her absence in their lives would not alter much for them. They could go on just as they had when she was convalescing or when she lived in the convent. She, on the other hand, had left everything behind that she knew and once loved, and though she was filled with confidence in his presence, when Patrick was not near her Shelagh questioned his certainty despite his declaration on the road in the mist.

Her eyes slammed shut beneath the hot sun. _Stop it, Shelagh. Stop it._ She was wrong to doubt him. It was the constraints of her past seeping into her present consciousness, she knew. For so long she had been forbidden from thinking of any man as interested in her, equally forbidden to entertain the possibilities in loving someone herself. For her entire adult life it had been a welcome acceptance, as her life was filled with a divine purpose that filled her and made her whole. And, while she finally allowed herself to recognize that something was missing from her life, she was still living the life and thinking the thoughts of someone who had been conditioned to forgo so many civilian wonderings. It would take time and effort to break herself of the habit, and she hoped and prayed that Patrick would understand that.

Shelagh's gaze returned to her handbag and she shifted it in her hands. As she did in most times of doubt, she reached for her Bible, which she always carried inside the new bag and placed on her bedside table each evening. The place where its pages chose to separate was familiar to Shelagh, for it safely held one thin envelope addressed to St. Anne's and bearing her religious name. Patrick's letter. She had tucked the others away in her suitcase but let this one, her favorite, remain in the place where she would be most likely to run across it. Today, with anticipation and nervousness taking over, Shelagh sought comfort in this paper instead of the pages of the book whose words had dictated her life for so long.

There was no need for her to take the letter from its envelope. Shelagh knew every word written on the pages, had memorized the rise and fall of the almost illegible handwriting and had taken in every blot of ink. She knew the swirl of his capital letters and the way he stopped the letter "s" if it ended a word without completing its tail. The second page had a wrinkled corner stained with tea he must have spilled while writing. The letter began the same as all of them had – _My dear friend_ – and ended the same – _Most sincerely, Dr. P. Turner_ – but its content held much more. Shelagh touched the envelope in the sunshine with a loving hand, tracing his handwriting, remembering the first time she'd read Patrick's words. He was clearly struggling to keep his comments brief and neutral, though she had even then picked up clues to his feelings. There were no overt declarations of love written in the lines. Patrick had never overstepped the bounds of absolute professionalism, yet by the simple act of writing to her he had included her in his life. _"Timothy is doing much better in maths,"_ this letter said, _"but he says he is anxiously awaiting your reply once the mystery of the dead butterfly is solved."_ After this he had meekly apologized for allowing his son to send an insect carcass to her, but thought in some odd way that it might cheer her up. But then at the end of it Shelagh had sensed a hesitation, even on paper, wrought with emotion; even his handwriting changed, as though he had left the letter and returned to it later. _"As usual, you are never far from my thoughts. I shall anticipate the day you come home to Poplar as a schoolboy anticipates the spring. Take care of yourself so you can come back to us soon. Please be well. Most sincerely, Dr. P. Turner."_

The first time she had read it, along with the others in the sitting room at St Anne's, Shelagh felt her heart had stopped. Even now, sitting in the park weeks later and just thinking of the words, Shelagh could not contain a smile, remembering how Patrick had made her feel. She'd dissected each word and phrase as the days passed toward her discharge from the sanitorium, filling her with a surge of healing no doctors there could have prescribed. Each time she read it the words held another new meaning. "Home" had changed from London to Patrick's own home, and the "us" he hoped she came back to was no longer her entire community but the doctor and his son. Did Patrick know how much those letters had meant to her? She had thanked him for them, yes, but she'd been unable to tell him exactly how much they had helped. And she had never replied to him, only to Timothy. It had been an odd choice, sending her letter directly to Dr. Turner's office instead of his home. It was not as if she didn't know his address, for they all had to know the most likely places to find the doctor if he was needed. But instead of addressing the letter to Timothy's home, she'd sent it directly to Patrick's desk. She wondered from time to time if she had meant him to see it first.

A robin twittered and flew close by, distracting her, bringing her eyes to the sky. The clouds reminded her of Timothy and a particularly jovial afternoon they'd had in this very park last week when he had described all of his favorite cloud formations and explained their purposes. She loved his enthusiasm for everything, and every time they spoke Shelagh found herself falling head over heels for the boy who had sent her a dead butterfly during her illness while his father sent her letter after letter.

Shelagh looked at the envelope tucked into her Bible once more. The simplicity of its presence gave her the comfort she needed. If Patrick had no plans for today, she decided, she would suggest they come to this park to walk, and afterward she would go home to her tiny room and finally reply to his letters. She wanted to let him know what he meant to her, how he had helped her then, and how important his family had become to her life now. Somehow saying the words aloud seemed ludicrous, but writing them was the right thing to do.

Shelagh stood, finally calming hours after the terrible dream had rattled her. Her skirt and jacket were hot, sticking to her skin until she smoothed the fabric. After she placed her Bible and Patrick's letter safely in her purse, she closed her eyes to the sunlight. It would all be all right. God would show her the way... and Patrick would be there to help. With a deep breath, and thoughts of Patrick gently drifting through her mind, she began to walk and decide on the most appropriate words to use when she told him how much she loved him.


	7. Chapter 7

Had anyone else in the parish hall been aware of his plans for the afternoon, they may have noticed how many times Dr. Turner glanced at his wristwatch blindly before checking it again only a second later to fully absorb the time. The nurses had always thought of him as a bit frazzled, so they paid no mind when he laughed a bit too titteringly at his less-than-compelling puns and scribbled on charts so illegibly that later they would have to ask a colleague to decipher the words. Everyone was busy with their duties, and therefore no one paid attention to the doctor who dropped his ink pen twice that morning and frequently touched the deep pocket on his left side. A face as lined and expressive as Dr. Turner's did not scream of tiredness any more than usual, though a longer examination of his features would have presented the viewer with deep, dark creases under eyes rimmed a shade pinker than normal.

Clinic was a bustling flurry of activity, as every Tuesday tended to be. Patrick was thankful for the distraction, though he was disappointed to find that preoccupation did not make the hours fly any faster. The anticipation of five o'clock sparked a tingling in the hollow below his ears and it seemed as though liquid nervousness ran through his veins. He had no idea how he would broach the subject of marriage to Shelagh, but the thought of seeing her face – and hearing her acceptance – filled him with a wish that the day would hurry toward afternoon.

He'd spent much less time at the jeweler's than he'd anticipated, for once he saw the ring it was a simple guessing game of what size her finger would be. The squat old man behind the counter asked few questions, endearing him to Patrick so fully that he offered information he otherwise would not have volunteered.

"Special ring," the man had said. "Lovely choice, lovely choice. She'll be pleased."

Patrick had laughed nervously. "I hope so."

Apparently his apprehension had been visible because the man stopped examining the stone and looked Patrick square in the eye. "Do ye love 'er?"

"I – I – yes, yes of course I do..." He had stammered, shocked at the forwardness of the stranger.

"And does she love ye back?"

Patrick nodded and stared at the ring, afraid that if he spoke the words he might curse himself for assuming something so precious neither of them had spoken to the other.

"Then tha's all ye need to know," the gent said with a small pop as he closed the lid of the ring box and extended it over the counter. "The ring is jest a small part o' it, lad. It's the love that makes a girl promise to be yers. If ye've got that ye don' need diamonds."

Patrick had marveled at the old man who so willingly devalued the source of his own livelihood. Hours later, in the cubicle of a woman pregnant with her fifth child, he was still grateful for the dose of courage the man had given him. He was going to need it.

Amidst the activity of the prenatal clinic, Patrick felt the box in his pocket again. It had become a nervous habit of the day, grazing a hand over the left pocket at his hip. Whether it was to ensure the ring's safety or to calm himself Patrick did not know. Yet knowing the ring was there, mingling in his pocket with one of Timothy's rogue toy animals he had picked up one morning, gave Patrick an overwhelming sense of comfort as the hours dragged by. Timothy had been right about the ribbon, of course. The paper he had decorated sprung from the ring box as soon as it was wrapped around, so the boy's entreaty to find a ribbon had been followed, though awkwardly, causing yet another delay in Dr. Turner's arrival at the weekly clinic.

Standing now in the cubicle he smiled. "Well, Mrs. Dooley, everything seems in order. Next time I see you may very well be in the maternity home." He smiled at the chart absently while making his notes, forcing himself to concentrate a bit more than usual.

"Thanks, Doctor," the woman grunted as she tipped herself from the examination table and tidied her skirts. "I wish I had lived in these parts when the others were born. This time I won't have to worry about the other kids running around."

Patrick continued to smile at the paper, not really absorbing the woman's attempt at conversation. He made a noncommittal murmur and watched peripherally as Mrs. Dooley exited the cubicle, leaving him alone before the next patient was called. Once again he checked his watch, noting the seemingly endless hours until his duty would be fulfilled and he could focus entirely on the coming evening and all that it could mean for the future. He scratched his collar and wondered if he shouldn't have left his jumper in the car; the added layer was uncomfortably warm today. It had been an abnormally conscious decision to wear it this morning, since the blue of the yarn so closely resembled Shelagh's eyes. The tie was his favorite, green, and Timothy's remark this morning about their favorite colors made him glad he had chosen them for today.

He was still wondering about his wardrobe choices when was distracted by movement outside the cubicle he occupied, and saw through the parted curtains that the nurses Franklin and Miller had stopped for a moment to compare schedules.

"Quite the day," Nurse Miller said in that breathy way of hers with a hand rubbing the back of her neck. "Every prenatal clinic seems an absolute miracle these days."

Nurse Franklin nodded. "I think the same thing each week. We've had almost sixty patients today and it's hardly after lunchtime." The nurse looked up from her file and lowered her voice, stealing a glance across the room at Sister Evangelina's back. "It's been bloody difficult the last few weeks, and now that Chummy's out because of the baby, it's even worse."

Patrick watched Nurse Miller nod silently, then whisper, "And it's hard without Sister Bernadette around. She always seemed able to keep the little ones in check. I thought for sure she would come back after she was discharged from St. Anne's."

Hidden behind them in the empty cubicle, Patrick felt as though all the blood had drained from his face. He had still not mastered any semblance of nonchalance when Sister Bernadette was mentioned, and though he usually dismissed himself from the company of those discussing her, to do so now would give up his location. And, today, something in him was eager to hear what might be said about the woman he had been spending so much time with.

"I know she's only one person," Nurse Miller continued, "but it does make such a difference. She's terribly missed."

Patrick smiled. Nurse Miller was the most soft-spoken of all the midwives, and he admired her deep humility that knit tightly with her quiet competence. As with all of them he felt he would entrust her with his own wife and child, and with that thought a sudden flash of tiny Shelagh, pregnant and adorable, ran through his mind. For a moment he let himself smile at the picture in his imagination of her carrying around a baby that belonged to the two of them, and Timothy being a big brother. He shook his head slightly. _Snap out of it, Turner, you still have patients to see._

"You're right," came Nurse Franklin's girlish voice, "Sister Bernadette was so good with the little ones. I thought I'd ring Toby Granger's neck if he didn't stop with that horrid whistle this morning. Why would someone give a child a whistle? Honestly!"

Nurse Miller giggled.

Nurse Franklin sighed and shook her head, causing her curls to bounce. "Sometimes I can't seem to get a handle on these loud children at clinic. They don't listen to me. Sister Bernadette would have distracted him and he would have stopped. He probably would have handed it over to her and begged forgiveness!" They both laughed this time, and Patrick found himself smiling proudly. Shelagh had always had a way with children, he'd noticed that years ago, though not quite as astutely as in recent months.

After a considerable pause, Nurse Miller's soft voice interrupted his memories. "I do hope she's getting on well. I wish we could write to her."

"I don't think I would know what to say, to be honest," Nurse Franklin admitted. "I had no idea she was thinking about leaving the convent. Though you can't blame her, can you? Those habits do absolutely nothing for the figure." Patrick watched her blond head swivel as she gave her colleague a cheery wink.

"Well," sighed Nurse Miller, "wherever she is, I hope she's happy."

"She's been seen around town a bit, but no one knows quite where she's staying."

"Oh, I didn't know she was back in Poplar to stay."

"Yes, well I just overheard Mrs. Whitmore – you know, the one who owns that tiny salon? She said," and here Nurse Franklin dropped her voice so that Patrick had to tilt his ear toward them to hear her. "She said that Sister Bernadette came to her shop last week and had her hair done! Didn't recognize her at first but then she started drying her hair with the white towel draped over her head -"

"No!"

"- and immediately she knew it was her! I imagine poor Sister Bernadette was flustered to no end!"

"Oh dear," Nurse Miller sighed again.

As the weight of their words hit him, the two midwives were called and returned to their duties, leaving Patrick alone in the corner of the loud room, hidden from view, frowning at his own hand which had stilled. Shelagh hadn't told him about anyone recognizing her. They'd discussed her fear of gossip several times, but so far he thought she had gone unrecognized by the community she had always been part of under a different guise. He stared unseeing at the scribbles on his pad, wondering what the salon woman had said to her and how Shelagh felt afterward. He tried to remember the day her hair had changed but could not pinpoint it exactly. It was at least four days ago. Had Shelagh acted strangely four days ago? He felt angry with himself as he attempted to finish his notes on Mrs. Dooley's chart. He should have known if she was upset. Patrick would ask her about it tonight, if he could remember.

Tonight.

He flicked his wrist and checked his watch. So far away. Was Shelagh as nervous as he, he wondered? No, of course she wasn't; she had no idea he asked her here to propose. Should he do it here, in the hall? Patrick asked himself, glancing around the room that most people would find to be utterly unromantic. It was true: the parish hall was sterile and uninviting without the warmth of people. Yet this was where they had known each other, week in and week out, working together and, yes, falling in love with each other. Patrick still shuddered to think he had fallen in love with a nun; that she had chosen to leave the religious life behind to be part of his was nothing short of a miracle. He had never dreamed that it could happen, all those months ago as they stood in this very building and he took her hand, kissed it, then watched it disappear as she turned from him.

Patrick's head snapped in the direction of the kitchen alcove. He stepped to the cubicle opening, imagining himself standing before the running tap with the tiny nun Shelagh had been, taking her hand and touching her skin for the first time. It was wrong of him, yet she had forgiven him. So much had started in that strange little room. Perhaps tonight, when she arrived, he would ask her to marry him there. It was an option, at least, if he couldn't figure out a better plan before clinic was over.

Though hardly a minute had passed, he checked his watch again. He could barely remember a day that had pressed on so slowly. With a quirk of his eyebrows at his own thought he remembered that that was not true. There had been days that were slower than today, very recently, days that had dragged into weeks and weeks that had stretched into months in which he felt time would never speed up again. Though she had still been a nun and only accented his life, Shelagh's absence during her illness had been felt immensely. Time had gone slowly, and every moment Patrick spent thinking of her or writing to her was punctuated with the question of when they would see each other again. That unknowing had made those weeks almost unbearable, and his only recourse was to write to her and mark the days between letters. He had been daring, perhaps brazen, in sending letter after letter and receiving no reply, but the need to have her see that he cared was so great that it could not be stopped. Her absence was acknowledged so fully that time only seemed to pass in spurts of memory and thoughts of her recovery. Today, he promised, he would make sure she would never be absent from his life again if she accepted him.

But... what if she declined?

The thought was one which had plagued him throughout the day and night, one which he was happy to shove aside in the face of duty during clinic but which crept up upon him at the most inopportune moments. Patrick would inevitably remind himself of his son's words and repeat silently that it was not too soon to propose, that he and Shelagh known each other practically an entire decade, that she undoubtedly felt the same as he did about her. He'd felt it last night in her touch, saw it in her eyes and the way she would smile without even moving her lips. When she had allowed him to touch and soothe her painful feet she had let him glide into another uncharted territory, bringing them closer. He could sense her yearning for them to be nearer and hoped she could see his own desire for their closeness, though at times he felt he would scream from the want of her and frighten her off.

_Oh, Shelagh,_ he thought, looking at the watch again but seeing only tiny lines and moving hands. He wondered what she was doing today – was she really shopping, or was she at the library or taking a stroll? If Timothy had been home she would probably be at their house right now, preparing his son's lunch and finishing their chess game. She might be sewing or reading or taking him on an outing somewhere. But Timothy was not home and there was no way for Patrick to know what she would be doing today.

When he married her he could ask her. He could, in his hopes and dreams, just turn over on his pillow and watch her face in the morning before either of them arose, and he could ask her anything he wanted. They could lie there, close, touching, warm, just looking at each other. She could ask him what his schedule would be like, would he be home for tea, which patients would he be seeing, what kind of pudding would he like tonight? In the seconds that ticked off his watch he could picture them together in the mornings and the evenings, participating in that domestic dance that she was already beginning to learn, discussing everything they had done. Shelagh would understand his medical jargon – the comforting thought made him smile – and Patrick would delight in her discoveries in her new life with him. They could be so happy. _Please let her say yes,_ Patrick unwillingly begged the God he did not believe in, _please let her say yes._

He was still standing in the cubicle opening, staring at his watch when he found his eyes drawn slightly higher to meet the eyes of the aproned nun standing before him.

"Dr. Turner," came Sister Evangelina's sharp voice, "if it's not too much of an inconvenience, Mrs. Capshaw would like to have her examination before she gives birth on the floor of the parish hall."

"Yes, marvelous," he said with a grin, not quite to the nun or the patient hustling into the cubicle. For the thousandth time that day he glanced at his watch. Three more hours.


	8. Chapter 8

Timothy Turner had forgotten his packed lunch.

It had happened before and had been forgiven before, and it was likely to happen again. Tim's dad was a widower, after all, and to complicate the case even further the man was a doctor who had too little time on his hands as it was. Remembering to make a packed lunch was a responsibility that fell to Timothy whenever it was necessary to pack one for a Cubs outing. That Tuesday, when Tim realized he had nothing to eat while they were searching for animal tracks in the forest, he was not too surprised when Bagheera said he had some extra food he could share.

Bagheera was a fun leader, not quite as good as Akela, but he was still really nice. He was leading their outing since Akela had just had a baby. When it came time for lunch he handed Tim one of his sandwiches and offered an oily paper bag of yesterday's soggy chips, of which Timothy took as few as possible without seeming rude. He settled on the ground behind a circle of fellow Cubs who were comparing the lunches their mothers had packed, and he was thinking about the time – Dad was still at the clinic – when the hefty leader took a seat on a rock next to him.

Tim smiled up at him from his spot on the grass. "Thanks, Bagheera. I'm sorry I forgot my lunch again."

A large hand with thick fingers was waved dismissively. "Fink nuffin' of it, fink nuffin' of it. Always have too much anyways, don' I?" He rolled a fat hand over his big belly and chuckled a little bit.

Timothy laughed, too, then took a bite of the sandwich. Normally Tim would be more excited about a countryside outing, but today was different. Today he was preoccupied – that was a word Dad had used once – and every time he tried to focus on finding animal tracks with his friends, he thought instead of Dad and Shelagh, of the hours and hours that would drag on until he got home, and of what Dad would say when he got there. Timothy didn't mind that he sat a bit away from his friends today, because his mind was still on whether he should have drawn a butterfly on Shelagh's note or whether Dad would have had the time to find the ribbon. He sure hoped so.

"Nice day today, innit?" Bagheera smiled down at him.

It was a really nice day, sunny but a little windy. Two Cubs had already had to chase their caps that had flown off. If he hadn't been on this outing Timothy would probably be spending the day with Shelagh. It had been a fantastic half-term, the best holiday in a long time, thanks to her. Today was his first day away from her, and though it had hardly been a week since she had properly settled into his life, he found himself missing her company. As he nodded an answer to his leader's remark about the weather, Timothy wondered what Shelagh would be doing today. All the rest of the days she'd been home had been spent at his house, cooking or playing with Tim or going to the park with him. She never grew bored of hearing about butterflies or amphibians, and even though he knew he should let her ears rest, Timothy never tired of talking about them. The nuns were always doing something, and in all the time he'd known her he had never seen Shelagh – or Sister Bernadette as she'd been – just sitting around doing nothing. She was always busy. But what do you do once you aren't a nun anymore? There's no prayer ritual, and Timothy reckoned she couldn't be a midwife anymore now that she left Nonnatus. What was there to do but read or clean or cook things? When she went to his and Dad's house she did just that, and she seemed to genuinely enjoy it all, which Timothy found to be quite strange.

"Was a nice evenin' last night, too," Bagheera continued, unaware of the boy's thoughts. Above him, Bagheera studied his own sandwich then said in a low voice so only Timothy could hear, "I 'fink I seen your dad and Sister Bernadette out takin' a stroll last nigh'."

Tim felt his ears get warmer while he picked at his portion of the greasy chips he'd been offered. No one had told Timothy to be secretive about Shelagh's new part in their lives, yet he still had the feeling that he should be careful of his words. The two times he'd asked her about the nuns she'd looked like she was going to cry, so he knew her leaving the church was a tender subject. He didn't want to give up too much information, so instead of replying to Bagheera's comment, Timothy stuffed one of the shiny chips into his mouth and regretted it immediately.

The man seemed unphased by the lack of response, and he was flipping his sandwich over and over. When he spoke his voice was still low and secretive. "How's she doin' then? The little Sister? She doin' alrigh'?"

Timothy looked at an ant crawling in the grass by the rock. "She's called Shelagh now. Dad makes me call her Auntie Shelagh," Timothy muttered, continuing their unspoken pact to avoid eye contact. It was rather like a spy movie, when the two spies pretended to talk in other directions so they didn't give away that they knew each other.

"_Sheeler_," Bagheera said in that funny Cockney way of his. "Blimey. Name don't seem do fit her, do it? She's always gonna look like a Sister Bernadette t' me, mefinks."

Timothy shrugged and chanced a quick look at Bagheera's face. "That's what I thought at first, too, but I think she's even better as Shelagh."

Bagheera was still looking away, like he was studying some branches on a far off tree. "So you been seein' a lot of 'er then?"

Tim weighed the consequences of truly opening up to him. Bagheera was not known to be a gossip, and he was a kind, jolly man. He'd known Shelagh when she was a nun for a lot longer than Timothy had known her, so maybe he missed her friendship. It wouldn't hurt to tell him that she was doing well, that she seemed happier now than she'd ever been as a nun, that she was great fun.

With a subtle nod Timothy finally answered. "She's been by every day for nine days. Today is the first day I haven't seen her, but that's okay because she and Dad-"

He stopped himself before it was too late. No matter what, he could not tell Fred that Dad was asking Shelagh to marry him today. That was private, and even though the concept was still somewhat hazy to the ten-year-old, privacy was something that adults seemed to be really cross about when it was ruined. So in an effort to eat the words he had begun to let slip, Timothy took a large bite of Fred's spare sandwich.

Once again the man didn't seem to notice. "Your Dad was smilin' an awful lot, weren't he then? I saw 'em last night and I says to meself, I says, 'That there is the happiest I ever seen the good doctor.' And it's true, innit? Never seen 'im so pleased lookin'."

For some reason Timothy smiled without meaning to. Bagheera's words were completely true. Dad was happier now that Shelagh was around. "She's going to take me to the science museum after school next week," Timothy volunteered, feeling proud that Bagheera seemed to approve. "Dad never has time to take me anymore, and I haven't been back since... since my mum took me..."

Timothy was aware his last few words were quieter than the rest, and he aimed to hide his sudden discomfort by tucking into the sandwich again. He could feel Bagheera's eyes on him, studying him between bites, and after a while he looked up and found his troop leader smiling down at him.

"My Dolly lost 'er mum young, too, during the war. I never did find no one who could take 'er mum's place. See, there's something you look for in a person, and if you found it once, it's rare to find it again. Siste- erm, _Sheeler_," Fred coughed, "she must be real special if your dad's been spendin' so much time with 'er."

Timothy tugged at the grass tickling his ankles. He had been thinking about his mother a lot lately. It was hard to avoid, since Shelagh was all of a sudden filling a void he and Dad had worked so hard to pretend didn't exist. Every day there were little reminders of Mummy because of Shelagh, and strangely he was not upset by them. She wore Mummy's apron, for instance, and Shelagh played his mother's favorite records without even knowing. It was nice.

He found that he didn't remember much about Mummy these days. He'd gotten over the crying bit a little over a year ago, and that was good. Now he seemed to be growing up and forgetting more and more as the weeks went on. Timothy's memories of Mummy were almost all blurry now. Sometimes he would catch scent of a banana and think of her, leaning over the kitchen hatch, peeling one for her and one for little Timmy. She said she loved them, that they didn't have bananas during the war and she'd never thought much of them then but fell head over heels for them afterward. That was the first time Tim had heard the term "head over heels," and he still had that strange childish mental picture of his mother cartwheeling down a row of banana trees. There were a few other things that reminded him of her: Dad's shaving lotion and how it would mix with the powdery scent of Mummy's clothes; playing in the sea as she held him and the waves crashed onto his back while she sang nursery rhymes in his ear; the way she ran her hand through Tim's hair at night and traced her thumb on his cheek. Shelagh had done that the first night, that day they had found her on the road in the wrong clothes.

Timothy considered Bagheera's words as Gary and Jack began shoving each other and causing a momentary distraction. Shelagh _was_ special. He knew that, he'd always known that, but then there was something more. It wasn't just how nice she was or that she would play chess with him or talk about butterflies with him. That was all just part of it. Shelagh made Dad better, and she made Timothy better. They acted... gosh, they acted happy for the first time in a really, really long time, almost like a real family again instead of just a dad trying to pretend it was all normal for his son. When Shelagh was around Dad was all smiley and his shoulders weren't stiff and he didn't frown with his eyebrows as much. He liked to lean on things and he always looked relaxed, and he joked with Tim and mussed his hair and hugged him. Gosh, Timothy thought, if that was all from a week and a half, what would happen if Dad and Shelagh really did get married? Dad would be practically unrecognizable.

"What time is it, Bagheera?" Timothy asked, eager for the hours to pass. How long until Dad would ask her? Would she like his drawing?

Bagheera looked funny and chuckled a bit as he looked at his watch. Crumbs flew from his mouth as he said, "Third time you asked today, innit? Almost four now."

Timothy smiled. Dad would be in his last hour of clinic soon. He wondered if his father was more nervous than that morning. Tim had noticed the way he kept staring at nothing with wide eyes, and how his voice had wavered a little when he laughed. He hadn't eaten any breakfast.

"Bagheera, do you think-"

"Henry Walker you git back over here righ' now or I'll tell your mum you wasn't payin' attention to your elders again!" Bagheera shouted over Timothy's words, not hearing.

Timothy's eyes followed to the tiny boy by the river's edge who had just joined the group a couple weeks ago, inching closer and closer to the water despite Bagheera's threat. His head shot back and forth between his leader and his fellow scout, watching as the kid smirked at Bagheera and the man muttered.

"Well," said Bagheera, bracing his hands on his bare knees and straining to rise from the boulder, "next time you see 'er, you make shore and tell 'er that ol' Fred says 'ello."

As Timothy watched the large man walk surprisingly fast toward the river's edge, he smiled. Next time he saw Shelagh he guessed they would have a whole lot to talk about.


	9. Chapter 9

Shelagh decided to stay away from the parish hall until long after she knew it would have emptied. She predicted that Dr. Turner was sure to have run over with his patient appointments, so the clinic's time slot would inevitably be extended at least half an hour. Then there was the time that was taken each Tuesday to clean the hall and return it to its previous state. Ten years of nursing had taught Shelagh that this was done promptly and methodically within ten minutes each time. Nurses would then be standing around, discussing their patients in a circle by the collapsed cubicles while Sister Evangelina examined their cleaned pipettes and deemed them fit to go about their other duties. She did not want to chance running into any of her former sisters or colleagues, so she decided to wait nearby.

There was a loud echo as the heavy door closed behind her in a muffled thump. The sound seemed to fill the room, and Shelagh became overly conscious of her tiny presence in the large room. She had never felt small in here before, though she had never been there in the same circumstances.

The echo of her heels competed with the memory of the door's song as she took slow, uneasy steps up the aisle. The sunlight which would be fading quickly in the next few hours was streaking through the high windows, casting hazy spotlights on the pews and giving everything a holy eeriness. This had always been her favorite time of day to pray and contemplate for just this reason; something about the rays of the sun made her feel closer to God, as though at this one time of day He came down to tell her He was there.

She knew it was cowardly, sneaking into the chapel at a time when she knew she would not encounter any of her former sisters. They were all at the clinic or standing guard over the Nonnatus telephone, awaiting the call of their heavenly duties. Sister Monica Joan would be monitored by whatever nurse or midwife was stationed by the telephone, and the chapel would be left empty except for anyone who wanted to enter its waiting arms.

It was all the same, yet Shelagh felt irrevocably different. There were the obvious reasons why: she was no longer a nun and was wearing civilian clothing, makeup, and hair. She was walking differently, as well, for the first time unsure of her place in this cavernous room. The comfort it once gave her was somewhere in her past, she realized as she slid into a pew and sat quietly. How long had it been since she had come here? Weeks, months? Since her return to Poplar she had not neglected her prayers, but found other places to worship. The fear and pain of meeting one of her former Sisters was so real that at times she felt she could not breathe in anticipation of its inevitability. Avoiding it was her only way to cope at the moment, before she had answers to all of the questions she knew they would ask. Shelagh lowered her head and stared at her hands in her lap. One day she would have the answers to those questions, she felt sure of that. The communication that she and Patrick were beginning to share was something she had never experienced with anyone and, if God had shown her anything, she knew that with Patrick she could find the answers.

_Thank you, Father, for this life you are giving me to live. Thank you for all of it, but especially for Timothy and Patrick. Thank you for all we are together, and all that we will be._

It was simple, a small offering for such a large gift, yet Shelagh could not rely on the prayers of her past today. Today she would make her own prayers.

In the silence she thought of Patrick, for he was the center of most of her prayers these days. He was teaching her so much about love, even in just this short time. By sharing his life with her through his letters they were never truly separated, and her return to him was giving her more than she ever dreamed. There were moments in his presence that she felt perhaps she was dreaming, perhaps she had not survived her illness and was in Heaven, happy and carefree and feeling things she had never felt before. That was what he was like: Heaven. He made her feel loved always, made her feel as though she could love always in a way she'd never loved before.

It was a strange phenomenon, Shelagh thought as a cloud floated in front of the sun and caused the chapel to fall into hazy shadow. Her whole life had been built around love, and she'd never thought it to be a multifaceted emotion. Yes, it was a deep emotion, something that just grew and grew; that she had learned as a small child loved by the mother she lost too early but left her with a heart full of love. God had taken that yearning inside her and showered it on his creation, through her devotion to Him and His service and her vocation. What a truly blessed life she had led, Shelagh smiled when the sun lit the room again. What a wonderful way to find out all the ways to love.

And it truly was love that she felt for Patrick. It had taken her this long to admit it to herself freely, but what else could it be but love? Her heart leapt even now, sitting in a pew where a few long weeks ago she had tried to banish him from her thoughts. Her denial of her love for him somehow made it grow stronger, like a stubborn crocus budding between the cobblestones of Poplar, ignoring the promise of pain and choosing to forge onward. Every day there was a reminder of him, so much so that when her guard fell she wished for things a nun ought never wish for.

Knowing he felt the same way caused a hurricane of emotion to stir in her. That day in the parish hall, when he took her hand and kissed it, she wanted nothing else but was unable to receive as she desired. Shelagh couldn't even remember what she said to him that day, for she could still hear the beating of her pulse in her ears, could still feel the tingle of his lips on her palm and the warmth of his fingers on her hand. The moment had brought her sleepless nights and a pain in her heart that she had never felt before.

She knew Patrick had felt the same, and somehow that pain connected them even now. His first letter, once she allowed herself to read it, made her cry with its sweetness, its tender hints of apology and friendship. For years she knew him to be a thoughtful, passionate colleague.

Now she would know him to be a thoughtful, passionate man.

Shelagh knew her thoughts were wandering, but for a moment she allowed them to continue. Her eyes fell once more to her palm, and she touched the scar he had touched last night. The memory made her spine tingle. Just the thought of him made her spine tingle, she realized with a girlish smile. Would they laugh about the scar on her hand in the coming years? Would it be their own secret, their own special memory that they could whisper about in the early morning before the children woke? Would he kiss it, kiss it with her blessing, and remind her of his steadfast love for her? Oh, how she wished he would.

A clock rang from inside Sister Julienne's office, just beyond the chapel. Its reminder snapped Shelagh from her reverie and she quickly looked up from her hand. The sunlight was bathing the room again. For a minute she smiled as Sister Bernadette would smile, grateful for all that she had learned in this room, for the life she had had and the one that lay before her. New and terrifying though it may be, she knew that whatever happened, God would be with her and that was enough for the time being. In humble gratitude, she bowed her head and prayed until the clock struck again and bade her rise.

The walk to the hall was quick and easy, and thankfully Shelagh met no one who recognized her. Outside the door Shelagh listened for any muffled voices but heard none. She gripped the cold handle and anchored herself, willing her mind to stay in the moment. Tender fear stirred in her belly as she held it. How many tears had she cried over the last few months? How many hours of prayer and worry and sickness had brought her to this point? The turmoil of her life without Patrick had brought her to a possible life with him, and it was frightening how changed it was. But fear had never stopped her before. And now there would be Patrick with her, to help her along. She understood now what it meant to be loved. God had loved her, did love her, but she had never felt love as she did in Patrick's presence.

The morning's frightening dream seemed an eternity away now, and her quiet reflections in the park and chapel had calmed her mind. Yet there was still a thrill in her quick heart as she stood before the one barrier to the place where she knew Patrick would be waiting for her.

For the second time that day the click of her heels on the tile floor was a familiar sound to Shelagh. Though the notes were different the tune was the same, written between the walls of the parish hall. Usually the sound was muffled within the accompaniment of children and mothers and nurses busily running the weekly antenatal clinic. It was a melody written on Shelagh's heart, one she could recite for eternity but which always delighted her every time she was allowed to participate.

Her feet were wobbly on the steps as she navigated in her new shoes. She was used to the worn pattern of the hall floor from years of looking down, yet today eyes tore themselves from her feet and rose to the alcove where Patrick was waiting.

Patrick was waiting.

For her.

She held her breath at the sight of his back, instantly glad he was not facing her. For the first time that afternoon her nerves got the best of her and she held her breath, wondering fleetingly if this was all just a dream. How could a quick glimpse of a man's back make her thoughts jumble like this, her heart beat faster than it had ever done before? To steady herself Shelagh dropped her gaze to the floor again, focused on her footsteps and getting to Patrick as quickly as possible. She tried to focus on the room, the tile, anything that would lessen the dizziness that was overtaking her in anticipation of being near him.

There was a moment when she could see him before he could see her, before she had to look down to separate the curtains. He looked exactly as she always pictured him in her mind when they were apart, but here he was real. Without a moment to lose she stepped through the curtains and saw him fully, never taking his eyes from her, saying everything as he said nothing at all.

Oh, how she loved this man.

She watched his eyes take their fill of her, the corners of his mouth rise in the instant before she could speak. Now that they were alone, there were so many things she wanted to say to him, things she had thought about for months and for weeks, days and hours. All of today had been spent thinking of things to say to him, to write to him, to tell him about herself and about her feelings for him and her gratitude and her love. So many words were there, written in her mind and singing in her soul to tell him. Mixed with words were hopes of laughter and caresses and memories she prayed they would make together. This is how she felt every time she saw him, and she was only just realizing it was how she had felt for months without being allowed to fully comprehend it. Yet here she stood, an arms length away from him, able and willing to say anything and everything she could possibly want to say.

"Hello, Patrick."

The words were simple – too simple – yet they said everything. Their permission to use given names was a gift she had never known she had wanted. She vowed to say his name a million times before her life was over.

"Hello, Shelagh," Patrick said, and a tiny blissful noise escaped her throat.

She'd heard the old idea that your life flashes before your eyes when you die. Over the years she had witnessed many deaths, and Shelagh had wondered from time to time if one of God's gifts was a review of one's life before ascent into Heaven. In this instant, standing before Patrick, the man she loved enough to begin her life anew, Shelagh understood what it was to have her life flash before her eyes. It was not her past, but her future, _their_ future and a whole world of possibilities that played in her mind. And in that moment, the moment she once again heard her own name on his lips, she was his forever. She knew that for the rest of her life whatever he asked of her she would give.

Of that she was completely certain.


End file.
